“That’s right. Gosh, aren’t Click’s hamburgers delicious?”
“Lady, I’m going to fall in love with you; you appreciate food. Incidentally, how come you’re all dressed up? You don’t usually put on such a charming frock just to go to a fire, do you, especially at two in the morning?”
The girl shook her head. “No. I happened to be across the river tonight in East Palatka. Dancing at the River Inn.”
“With—”
“Mr. Carnes. We heard the siren and rushed over.”
Stan nodded his head and glanced away for a moment. Lois must have thought he was skeptical for she added quickly, “Jupe and I came together, all right. I left him parking the car. That was when you saw me at the mill.”
“Of course,” said Stan.
He liked the girl’s loyalty. Although there was a strong probability that she was telling the truth, Stan knew it was all of five minutes between her appearance at the mill office and the time he saw Carnes emerge from the darkness and head for the fire. She might be trying to cover up Carnes — they had ridden from the fire to Chick’s together and had plenty of time to fix up a story. Yet it was most improbable that anyone as frank and open as Lois Gilbert seemed to be would enter into such a deception. He determined to check up on Carnes and his wet shoes in the morning.
“I’m still at your service whenever you want a thorough police grilling,” Stan told her as he finished the last of his liberal meal. “I’ll most likely see you tomorrow. You cover the crate factory on insurance, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes, we do. Jupe will be glad to have you drop in.”
“Thanks,” said Stan. “Good night.”
Stan Rice breakfasted in the hotel dining-room at half past nine the following morning — dining lightly on a grapefruit, a double order of ham and eggs, a side order of grits, and three cups of coffee. With that small repast safely tucked away he felt he could face the busy day ahead.
A waiter brought him a telegraph pad. Through the smoke of his after-breakfast cigarette he composed three telegrams. He had just finished writing the third when a compulsion, purely mental, caused him to look around.
Behind him, one table removed, sat a small dark-skinned man with thin eyebrows, almost like a woman’s. Stan disconcertingly stared, running his blue eyes coolly over the man’s mean small features until his victim nervously picked up a morning paper and raised it before his face.
He turned back to his writing, and composed a fourth telegram — a request for a set of six pictures from the Mill Owners’ Protective Association. Somewhere he had seen the man behind him once before. It would be most helpful if he could find out exactly where.
He handed his telegrams to the clerk at the lobby desk, asked that they be sent off without delay, then casually said: “That man in the restaurant, at the second table just inside the door, has be been here long?”
The clerk took a look. “He checked in last night, Mr. Rice.”
“Do you happen to know what time?”
“If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get his card.” Scenting mystery the clerk turned to his files. “Here it is, Mr. Rice. Charles Wentworth. The card shows he registered at 2:45 A. M.”
“A late-comer.” Stan smiled. “Do you know him? I mean is he a salesman — one of your regulars?”
The clerk pursed his lips. “I’ve never seen him before that I can remember.”
“Two forty-five,” Stan repeated slowly. A puzzled frown flitted about his eyes. “That was after Trimmer was killed at the fire. I must have been in Chick’s. Is there a train about that time?”
“No, sir. Mr. Wentworth came in a car. That must be his car in front, the red sedan.”
“Thanks.” Stan walked to the lobby door and returned to the desk. “Your card doesn’t happen to say whether Mr. Wentworth checked in here with wet feet, does it?”
The clerk looked mystified, then broke into a smile. “You must be joking, Mr. Rice. Our cards don’t carry that kind of information.”
“That’s a pity,” Stan declared. “Believe me, young man, it’s no joke to me.”
Chief Blunt was out when Stan dropped into the City Hall a short time later. Stan left word he would be back shortly and walked around to the fire station, housed in one end of the same building. He found Buck Anders busily engaged in polishing the big LaFrance machine. Stan watched for a minute then said:
“There ought to be plenty of fire sales in town today.”
Buck’s answering grin was feeble. “Don’t joke about things like that, Stan. At least not in Palatka right now. This whole town’s got the jitters. Three fires in less’n two weeks is too damn many for comfort.”
“A big fire might wipe out the town, mightn’t it, Buck? If it started just right with a wind?”
“You’re telling me?” Buck’s round face sobered. “One nearly did many years ago. I’m living in terror that it may happen again — and soon.”
“Why, Buck?” Stan leaned against the engine.
“I’m saying nothing right now.” Buck wielded his rag at an imaginary dust spot. “But I’m doing a little checking on my own. I intended to find out how them fires were started, and who did the work — and quick, too.”
“Good work.” Stan straightened up. “I’m going to take a run down to the crate factory today myself. I want to look around. Tell me something: Did Trimmer always help out with laying the sucker in the river?”
Buck pondered, then shook his head. “That’s Phil Cox’s job most of the time. Trimmer just happened to be on the scene quick-like last night. It don’t really take two men to lay it. Sometimes somebody helps, but most times Phil does it alone.”
“Did Trimmer usually help Phil when he was there?”
“Most anybody was liable to help, Stan. That’s about all I can say.”
“O.K. Don’t say more than you can help about my looking around, Buck.” Stan paused on his way to the door. “I haven’t forgotten our date for quail, but I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait. When this business is over—”
Buck sighed. “You can’t get it over too quick for me.”
“By the way,” said Stan. “Where’s Phil Cox now?”
“He left a short while ago for Jacksonville.” Buck looked up from his work and gazed searchingly at Stan. “He got a phone call about an hour ago. He acted some like he was worried and said he simply had to go. Jim Hancock’s going to sub for him today.”
“You don’t know what the call was about?”
“I sure don’t,” Buck declared. “That’s Phil’s business, not mine.”
It was eleven o’clock when Stan left the firehouse and entered Blunt’s office. The Chief was phoning. Stan waited until he was through, then asked abruptly: “Did you know that Cox left this morning for Jacksonville?”
The Chief packed down tobacco in his pipe before he replied. “Why, no, I didn’t.” There was worried concern in his tone. “Last night you said you had nothing on him.”
“I haven’t today either,” Stan admitted. “But I’d like to get something. Mr. Phil Cox has a slightly tainted odor to me and I can’t quite place it.” He sat down on the Chief’s desk and kicked his heels against the side. “Suppose you call Jacksonville and have him tailed from the train. I’d like to have a report on this trip.”
“I’m ready to do anything,” said Blunt grimly and picked up the phone. He pushed a typewritten sheet of paper over to Stan while he was making the call. “Here’s a report on Wallace Trimmer. All that I can see is that it gums things up worse than ever.”
After Stan had read it he was inclined to agree. Trimmer was unmarried; in his late thirties; worked as a salesman for the North Florida Wholesale Grocery Company; belonged to a lodge, and was in every way the average successful business man of a not too large town. He had been quiet of habit; not given to excess of any kind.